Inherit The Flesh
by Abraxas Qlippoth
Summary: A twisted and sick take on Katara and Hakoda's relationship; they fill the voids of their lives within each other.


Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

**"Inherit The Flesh"** by **Abraxas** 2009-02-16

She did not know why she was angry.

She understood the reason why he left. She agreed - and left to pursue the same, exact cause. They fled to fight the enemy that killed a part of their family and enslaved the world.

Yet she was mad and could not understand it.

Fleeing away from her father. Running into the deck, past other allied soldiers. She reached a corner of the hold and crawled through the shadow and darkness. There, alone, she sobbed, whimpering like a helpless child. Racked with guilt. Why was she like that? Where came that knot of conflicted emotion?

She worshiped her father and hated to feel that way.

She cursed those shackles of torment, then, to calm her nerves she started to hum a lullaby of her mother.

Katara was so serene she did not notice Hakoda watching.

Suddenly, out of no where, he was standing under a slant of sun. His face was illuminated by the light. His body was consumed by the night. She shook, hoping the visage was not a dream. The figure was too perfect. The way his face was framed by his hair. Accented by his trim of beard. And, above everything, the way his eyes gazed.

The face was exactly as she fantasized

Was it the guilt that she could be with her father while her mother could not?

His face haunted Katara. Much as her face haunted Hakoda. To Katara that was and would be always the ideal of manhood. No body, ever, matched it. Only the men of the North were close but that resemblance was superficial.

Smiling through tears together, she reached up, he reached down. They held onto each other, fingers locking with fingers, without a word spoken. She tugged to urge him toward her and he, slowly, complied.

The man sat, his left side against the wall. The girl rested, her right side against the wall.

"You were gone so long I was afraid I would not recognize you. I memorized it, I thought about it, again and again." She feared the picture, static and ageless, would be so idealized all traces of reality could be lost. Yet, he defied expectation. "You are exactly how I pictured you would be."

"Katara."

Something about the way he said the name. The tone. The pace. It was not how a father talked to a daughter.

Moments without words followed. It induced a nervousness between the two. It was interrupted only when Hakoda stroked the side of her face, rubbed the loops of her hair.

"That face, Katara, you look exactly like that face. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. Yes, I knew. Those eyes." He pressed his lips against her wet, tight lids. "I always feared that face would be gone. Forever. But that will be impossible. Please, do not deny me, Katara."

"You miss my mother," she said, leaning her face against his neck. The feel of his beard pinching her cheek was alien yet fulfilling. "It does not have to be like that."

When Sokka realized their mother would not be coming back she promised she would be their mother. This, this need of Hakoda, it could be substituted - she reasoned. It would be with her father like it was with her brother. A nurturer. A companion. And it did not disturb Katara. She wanted to be everything with those she loved.

She kissed his cheek, the salty taste of tears stinging her lips.

She urged his face against her neck. His arms wrapped around her waist. Her fingers combed through his hair.

"I'll take care of you, Hakoda."

Why was it? That the name escaped liked that? Uttered as if weakened by passion.

Could it be that she felt she so needed to be like her mother that pretense was not enough. Assuming the role, emotionally, was not enough. She needed to be her mother, in body as in mind. Such that even to give away the flesh was nothing.

A moment later he kissed her cheeks. She rubbed his back through his shirt. Up and down its curve. He trembled yet she urged another kiss and he replied. He kissed her lips. Careful not to penetrate. Just to kiss. Leaving only a slight touch of wetness.

"Don't be nervous," she whispered breathlessly, "we need this moment. Let's not be what we are. Let's be what we want us to be."

In her mind it was not her father - it was her warrior. The idealized image of a man. Loving and comforting. And filling a void, carved by emotion unleashed and unchecked, that words alone could not describe.

Her heart skipped a beat thinking of that fantasy coming into reality.

As if to calm his fear, she pressed his hand onto her chest, her rhythm palpable through the flesh.

"Don't deny me," she begged.

He pressed her hand into the space between his legs where the hardness of his sex met the softness of her fingers.

Smiling, kissing his eyes, his lips, she whispered: "My warrior - take me..."

She leaned back and urged him atop. She heard pieces of armor fall to the floor. She felt his skin reveal itself under layers of scattered, discarded clothes.

He slithered against the girl, naked except for her arms embracing his back.

She rubbed his skin, feeling his muscles tense and relax. She squeezed his butt then stroked inside of his thighs. His grown, masculine sex could not be cupped with both hands. She stared into his face while she massaged his length, overwhelmed by excitement at the passion of his reaction.

"You are so strong, Katara, to endure this..."

To Hakoda the transformation could not be complete. He knew what she was doing, what she was allowing, what she was giving up to soothe his need. Though there was, already, so much about Katara that echoed his wife. And not only the obvious everybody knew - but also those other little things only a mate would have known. Like her secret, inner strength. Her profound urge to be giving and protective. Like a warrior! She was and would be, always, the ideal of a woman. No body, anywhere, matched that blend of characteristics.

Truth was he always felt guilty - for leaving his children and, though he was told again and again it was not his fault, he knew he could have saved his wife. If he could have relived that day so much would be different. Yes, that face tortured his memory with guilt...maybe, if he gave into its power of will, maybe if he sacrificed his soul to please its fantasy, she would be happy and he, again, could have looked at his daughter without feeling like a failure as a father. It was such a small price to pay.

The man curled atop the girl - face against face, legs wrapping legs, back arched above body.

Katara felt the throb of Hakoda's erection against her stomach. She guided his shaft into her slit. He kissed her lips while feeling his tip slip into her folds.

"...her through me..."

Inch by inch he worked his erection into her body. He battled the tightness of her virginity as gently as possible. And when she enveloped his flesh fully he lay still.

She urged forward and kissed his lips. He trembled as she penetrated his mouth. She lurched backward, squeezing and rubbing his tight, extended arms.

Katara did not see anything wrong with the act. It was a natural, loving thing to do. And she enjoyed what she imagined as fantasy coming into reality. Yet it was not a perfect kind of transformation.

"K - Ka - tara!" he stammered through a stifled shout. Sweating. Panting. Squirming while filling the girl with his seed. Then, climax exhausted, Hakoda collapsed atop Katara.

"...Hakoda..."

She stroked his hair while humming that lullaby of her mother. She replaced her mother so many different ways that it was, actually, nothing. She wanted the illusion to be complete not only for her but for him. Yet it proved to be impossible not to feel what happened. The consciousness of self could not be willed away.

She wanted to believe it was her ideal water tribe warrior thrusting and bucking atop her. But no matter how hard she tried she could not escape the fact that her father was that warrior. And would be that warrior forever.

Katara kissed Hakoda's cheek and snuggled her face against his neck. A tear welled within her eye. She accepted what fantasy tried to deny. It could not be spoken, though, to keep her father it would have to be a secret. Maybe it was true for him, too, that to keep his daughter his reality was to be a secret. Perhaps only in those brief moments of intimacy they could be free to be themselves.

These were such small prices to pay to please those they loved.

**END**


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